Fear

by L. Ron Hubbard

  A familiar figure swung along toward them. Tommy, swinging a limber black stick, his hat on the back of his head and his handsome face with its customary quirk of amusement, approached them and paused in recognition.

  “Hello, Jim.” And then, in concern, “Is something wrong with Mary?”

  “You know what’s wrong with Mary, Tom Williams.”

  Tommy looked at him oddly. “I don’t get you, old man.”

  “Not that you wouldn’t try,” said Jim with a cold grin at his own humor. “I’ve had enough of this.”

  “Enough of what?”

  “You took something from me. I want it back. I know about this, you see.”

  “Well?”

  “I want that part of myself back.”

  “You accuse me—”

  “Of being a thief.”

  “Well?”

  “So long as I had all of myself, all was well in this world. Now that part of me is gone—”

  Tommy laughed amusedly. “So you’ve caught on, have you?”

  “And I’ll remedy this, Tom Williams, or put an end to you.”

  Tommy’s laugh was brittle and he swung the cane as though he would like to strike out with it. “How is it that you rate so much?”

  “I don’t know or care how it is. What is mine is mine. Give me back that part of myself, Tom Williams.”

  “And lose my own?” said Tommy with a smile.

  “What is mine is mine,” said Lowry.

  “I believe in a more communistic attitude,” said Tommy. “I happen to want that part of you and I certainly intend to keep it.” And now the fangs at the corners of his mouth were quite plain.

  Lowry put Mary to one side. He snatched out and grabbed Tommy’s coat and hauled him close, aiming a blow. Somehow, Tommy twisted from the grasp and, in his turn, struck hard with his cane. For an instant the world, for Lowry, was ink. But he came up in an effort to lunge at Tommy’s throat. Again the cane felled him. Stunned now, he swayed on his hands and knees, trying to clear his fogged senses. Once more the cane struck him and he felt the pavement strike against his cheek.

  In a little while he was conscious of a face close to his own, a face from which protruded yellow fangs. A sick weakness, as though he were bleeding to death, pinned him to the walk.

  Tommy stood up straight and Lowry found that he could not move. Tommy seemed twice as big and strong as before.

  Mary looked at Tommy for a long while, the expression of her face slowly changing from one of wonder to one of agreeable satisfaction. And then Lowry knew why it was. She was nothing but a puppet herself, animated more than any of the rest because she had been more with a source. And when Tommy had taken part of him she had begun to divide her attention between them, for either one could animate her. And now that Tommy possessed an “allness” there could be no question as to which one she would follow.

  She gave no glance at all at Lowry on the walk. She looked up into Tommy’s face and smiled tenderly. Tommy smiled back and, arm in arm, they walked away.

  Lowry tried to shout after them, but they paid no heed. They were gone around the corner.

  By degrees, then, the street began to slump and become still. By degrees, but not wholly. Here and there a puppet twitched a little. Here and there a mouth made motions without making sound. Lowry stared in terror at the scene.

  For him the world was nearly dead!

  His body was so heavy that he could scarcely move at all. But he knew that he must pursue them, find them, gain back that vital force which had been stolen. To live, an eighth alive, in a world of apparent dead would drive him mad!

  And Mary!

  How could— But she was just a puppet, too. A puppet with all the rest. It was no fault of hers. The guilt was all Tommy’s. Tommy that he had thought his friend!

  It was agony to drag himself along, but he did, inch by inch, fumbling over the bodies which lay sprawled in the clear sunlight. He became aware of how hot it was getting and of a great weariness. If he could just rest for a little while, he might be able to find strength. He saw a bush in a yard where the cover was thick and he crawled into the coolness. Just to rest a little while and then to find Tommy and Mary!

  Chapter Eight

  It was nearly dusk when he awoke. He stretched himself stiffly, for he had become cold. For a moment he could not recall the events which had passed, and he came to his knees, aware of a thing he must do but not quite able to place it. This lethargy! Was it affecting his brain as well?

  But no, his brain was all right. Yes! Tommy and Mary and the world of the apparent dead!

  And what a tremendous amount of good that rest had done him. Or else—

  He peered forth from the bushes. There were people walking along the street and so it was fairly plain that Tommy would be somewhere nearby and that Lowry himself was drawing some of the force in common with the other puppets. Perhaps that would help him! If he could get close to Tommy and then, supported by Tommy’s own effect, he could possibly win back what he had lost.

  He lurked in the shadows of the street, watching for Tommy. But no, he could not locate any sign of him. Could it be that Tommy was in one of these houses? Perhaps dining? In such a position that he might look out and see the street?

  Perhaps there was another explanation. Perhaps, now that Tommy had all of it, these puppets would go on with their make-believe lives and Lowry along with them. But he himself knew and they—

  He emerged from cover. There was a man standing beside the letter box on the corner. Maybe he would know where to find Tommy. Lowry, assuming a careless air, sauntered up to the fellow. He was about to open his mouth and begin to question when his heart lurched within.

  This was Tommy!

  Tommy, with a mocking smile upon his mouth and a sly look in his eye!

  Lowry whirled and sped away, but when he found that no footsteps followed he slowed down. He glanced back and the man on the corner was looking after him and there was light, cheerful laughter suspended in the air.

  Why wasn’t he able to face him? Did he have to find him sleeping in order to steal away that which he had lost?

  Lowry stopped. Couldn’t he be more clever about this? Couldn’t he perhaps explain to some of these puppets what had happened to the world and thereby gain help? Many of them could assail Tommy and weigh him down and take that from him which rightfully belonged to the world.

  He went along, looking for someone to whom he could broach the plan. A man was watering a lawn inside a picket fence and Lowry stopped and beckoned to him. The man, holding the hose, strolled languidly over.

  Lowry was about to begin when he looked into the fellow’s face. Despite the dusk that face was plain!

  It was Tommy!

  Lowry whirled and ran, and again the light laughter hung upon the evening air.

  He slowed down, stubbornly refusing to be panicked. There was no use losing his head, for he still had a chance. Not everyone could be Tommy.

  Soon he saw a woman hurrying homeward. If he told her and she told her husband— Yes. He would stop her.

  He held up his hand and she dodged from him, but seeing no menace in him she allowed him to speak. He had uttered just one word when he saw who she was.

  Mary!

  His heart skipped a beat. Here she was alone! And he could plead with her— Again he started to speak. But Mary’s face was full of scorn and she turned her back upon him and walked away.

  It took Lowry some seconds to get over that. But he would not admit defeat. Here came three students. Students would obey him certainly, and these fellows wore sweaters with stripes around the arm. He stepped out in front of them.

  When they had stopped and were looking at him, he started to speak. And then he stopped. Each face into which he looked in turn became Tommy’s! And each face possessed that mocking smile and slyly evil glint of eye.

  Lowry stepped back and kept on walking backward. He spun about and ran away and did not stop until he had come to the c
over of the next block.

  A woman was there, but he knew better than to halt her, for even at ten feet, by the light of the street lamp, he could see that she was Mary. He pulled his hat ashamedly down over his eyes and slouched by and then, when she was going away from him, he began to run once more.

  He fled past other pedestrians, and each one that looked at him was possessed of the face of either Tommy or Mary. And after a little they began to call to him at intervals.

  “Hello, Jim,” said Tommy in mockery each time.

  “Oh, it’s you, Jim,” said Mary.

  Thickening dark and the thin street lamps’ glowing oppressed Lowry. It was becoming warmer by degrees and then, swiftly, turned cold. The house fronts were chill and impassive in the gloom; their lighted windows like glowing eyes that looked at him and mocked.

  “Hello, Jim.”

  And again, “Oh, it’s you, Jim.”

  Spreading lawns and the huddled shapes of bushes peopled the night with strange phantoms. Little shadows raced about his feet and sometimes brushed against his legs with a soft, furry touch. Once, as he stepped down from a curb, he saw a scaly thing dissolve an instant late.

  And then Tommy’s face, all by itself, floated eerily against the gray dark. The thing was thin and blurry, but the smile was there and the sly eyes regarded him steadily. The face faded away and left only the glinting of the eyes.

  Before him a shape had begun to dance, pausing until he almost caught up to it and then scurrying to get out of reach, to dance again and beckon. There was a certain mannerism about it that brought its identity to him. Wearily he recognized Mary, her face cold in scorn. Why and where was she leading him?

  “Hello, Jim.”

  “Oh, it’s you, Jim.”

  Shadows and the gloomy fronts of houses coldly staring. Shadows on the lawns and hiding at the edges of trees. Soft things which bumped his legs and a great shadow like spread wings reaching out to engulf the whole of the town.

  Blurry white wisps of faces drifting just ahead. Tommy’s and Mary’s. Mary’s and Tommy’s.

  Above, there was a rustling as of bats. Below, there came up a low and throaty sound. And the smells of fresh-cut grass and growing things were tinged with a perfume he could not define. A perfume. As illusive as those faces which drifted ever before him. A perfume— Mary’s. Mary’s perfume. Mingled with the smell of exotic tobacco. Exotic tobacco. Tommy’s.

  The great dark cloud spread and spread and the lamps became dim and the shadows deepened and began to march jerkily beside him at a distance. Each shadow, stationary until he came to it, coming up and marching with the rest. Darker and darker and then no sounds at all. No sounds or smells. Just the thin wisp of a mocking smile, gradually fading, forever receding.

  Weakly he leaned against the parapet of a little stone bridge behind the church and listened to the water saying: “Oh, it’s you, Jim.” “Hello, Jim.”

  At the other end there stood a dark, thick shadow. A thing with a slouch hat upon its head and a black cloak draped about it which reached down to its buckled shoes. It was carefully braiding a rope, strand by strand. Lowry knew he would rest a little and then walk over the bridge to the man of darkness.

  “Oh, it’s you, Jim.”

  “Hello, Jim.”

  Quiet little rippling voices, almost unheard, slowly fading. And now there was nothing more of that smile. There was nothing in the sky but the vast shadow and the plaintive whimper of an evening wind.

  The street lamp threw a pale light upon him and by its light he tried to see the water. The voices down there were scarcely whispers now, only a rippling murmur, a kind and soothing sound.

  He caught a glimpse of something white in the water and leaned a trifle farther, not particularly interested in the fact that it was a reflection of his own face in the black mirror surface below. He watched the image grow clearer, watched his own eyes and mouth take form. It was as if he was seeing himself down there, a self far more real than this self leaning against cold stone. Idly he beckoned to the image. It seemed to grow nearer. He beckoned again in experiment. It was nearer still.

  With sudden determination he held out both hands to it. It was gone from the water, but it was not gone.

  Jim Lowry stood up straight. He took a long, deep breath of the fresh evening air and looked up at the stars in the sky. He turned and looked along the avenue and saw people strolling and enjoying the smell of fresh-cut grass. He looked across the bridge and saw Old Billy Watkins leaning against a stone, puffing contentedly upon a pipe.

  With a feeling that was almost triumph, for all the weight of sorrow within him, Jim Lowry crossed the bridge and approached the night policeman.

  “Oh. Hello, Professor Lowry.”

  “Hello, Billy.”

  “Nice night.”

  “Yes . . . yes, Billy. A nice night. I want you to do something for me, Billy.”

  “Anything, Jim.”

  “Come with me.”

  Old Billy knocked the ashes from his pipe and silently fell in beside. Old Billy was a wise old fellow. He could feel Lowry’s mood and he said nothing to intrude upon it, merely walked along smelling the growing things of spring.

  They walked for several blocks and then Jim Lowry turned into the path at Tommy’s house. The old mansion was unlighted and still and seemed to be waiting for them.

  “You should have a key to fit that door, Billy.”

  “Yes. I’ve got one; it’s a common lock.”

  Old Billy turned the knob and fumbled for the hall light, turning it on and standing back to follow Lowry.

  Jim Lowry pointed at the hatrack in the hall and indicated a lady’s bag which lay there beside a lady’s hat. There was another hat there, a man’s, trammeled, halfway between hatrack and living room; it had initials in the band, “J. L.”

  “Come with me, Billy,” said Jim Lowry in a quiet, controlled voice. As they passed the living room, Old Billy saw the stumps of a broken chair and an upset ashtray.

  Jim Lowry held the kitchen door open and turned on the light. The window was broken there.

  A mewling sound came from somewhere and Jim Lowry opened the door to the cellar. With steady, slow steps he descended a short flight of stairs, through newly swung strands of cobwebs. A Persian cat with a half-mad look bolted past them and fled out of the house.

  Jim fumbled for the basement light. For a moment it seemed that he would not turn it on, but that was only for a moment. The naked bulb flooded the basement and filled it with sharp, swinging shadows.

  A crude hole had been dug in the middle of the dirt floor and a shovel was abandoned beside it.

  Jim Lowry took hold of the light cord and lifted it so that the rays would stream into the coal bin.

  An ax, black with blood, pointed its handle at them. From the coal protruded a white something.

  Old Billy stepped to the dark, dusty pile and pushed some of the lumps away. A small avalanche rattled, disclosing the smashed and hacked face of Tommy Williams. To his right, head thrown back, staring eyes fixed upon the stringers and blood-caked arm outflung, lay the body of Mary, Jim Lowry’s wife.

  Old Billy looked for several minutes at Jim Lowry and then Jim Lowry spoke, his voice monotonous. “I did it Saturday afternoon. And Saturday night I came back here to find the evidence I had left—my hat—and dispose of the bodies. Sunday I came again—I had to climb in the window. I’d lost the key.”

  Jim Lowry sank down upon a box and hid his face in his palms. “I don’t know why I did it. Oh, God, forgive me, I don’t know why. I found her here, hiding, after I had found her hat. Everything was whirling and I couldn’t hear what they kept screaming at me and . . . and I killed them.” A sob shook him. “I don’t know why. I don’t know why she was here . . . I don’t know why I could not reason . . . cerebral malaria . . . jealous madness—”

  Old Billy moved a little and the coal pile shifted and rattled. Tommy’s arm was bared. It seemed to thrust itself toward Lowry, and in
the cold fist was clenched a scrap of paper as though mutely offering explanation even in death.

  Old Billy removed the paper and read:

  Tommy Old Sport:

  Next week is Jim’s birthday and I want to surprise him with a party. I’ll come over Saturday afternoon and you can help me make up the list of his friends and give me your expert advice on the demon rum. Don’t let him know a word of this.

  Regards,

  Mary

  Somewhere high above, there seemed to hang a tinkle of laughter: high, amused laughter, gloating and mocking and evil.

  Of course, though, it was probably just the sigh of wind whining below the cellar door.

  Glossary

  The words and expressions used in the 1930s and 1940s add a unique flavor and authenticity to this tale. While a character’s speech may often reflect regional origins, it also can convey attitudes common in the day. So that readers can better grasp such cultural and historical terms, uncommon words or expressions of the era, the following glossary has been provided.

  auto-da-fé: the public declaration of judgments passed on persons tried in the courts of the Spanish Inquisition, followed by execution by civil authorities of the sentences imposed, especially the burning of condemned heretics at the stake. → to text

  Beau Brummell: an extremely or excessively well-dressed man. Named after George Bryan Brummell (1778–1840), an Englishman who was regarded as an authority on all matters of dress and etiquette. → to text

  cabalistic: of an esoteric doctrine or mysterious art; having a secret or hidden meaning; of the occult. → to text

  Carroll: Lewis Carroll (1832–1898), an English author whose most famous writings are Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking-Glass. → to text